


A Girl Worth Fighting For

by ryfkah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Community: fma_ladyfest, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah/pseuds/ryfkah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An argument among the junior Armstrongs is resolved with a history lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Girl Worth Fighting For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izilen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izilen/gifts).



If the paternal Armstrong weren't currently suffering from severe concussion after an unfortunate duel the day before, the problem would have been settled in the usual sort of way – a wrestling tournament, or single combat with blunted fencing foils behind the house. As it was, the head of household had explicitly expressed a wish for no loud or violent interludes before the party, so his wife was simply going to have to find some more peaceable form of compromise.

“I really don’t understand,” she remarked, gazing at the brawling pile of junior Armstrongs in the middle of the Great Hall, “why none of you have the imagination to come up with another idea for a costume.” Her tone was dry, her voice not especially loud; nonetheless the words sliced through the din like the Armstrong family heirloom sword and left quiet in their wake.

The Armstrong children looked at each other and gulped. Strongine guiltily released Alex’s forelock. Amue pushed baby Catherine Elle off her stomach and glanced over at Olivier, who was leaning against the doorjamb looking superior. When it became clear that Olivier was not going to exercise her eldest-sister right to speak first, Amue scrambled to her feet, shoved imaginary iron down her back to achieve the proper speaking posture, and cleared her throat. “Brigadier General Olympe Armstrong is our most accomplished female ancestor, and none of us wants to go to the party dressed as a boy, Mother!” she announced, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Except Alex who doesn’t count!”

“Attending the party as Brigadier General Olympe would entail dressing as a boy regardless, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but if you’re wearing _Olympe’s_ armor,” piped up Strongine, from the floor, “everyone knows you’re not _really_ ,” and then cut off when Amue prodded her in the side with her foot.

Mrs. Armstrong skewered her only son with her gaze. “Alex Louis, can’t _you_ at least remove yourself from the competition?”

“I was defending Catherine Elle’s right to dress up as Olympe, because she’s too small to defend herself, Mother!” declared Alex, sparkling valiantly. Catherine Elle shot him an adoring glance. Amue, whose stomach was still tender after a number of extremely vehement kicks from Catherine Elle’s small feet, thought that this was slightly disingenuous of her.

“Mother,” Strongine said, in eminently reasonable tones, “I’m the only one who will fit into Olympe’s armor. Amue’s too big and Catherine Elle’s still too little. So logical reasoning states that I should get to wear it!”

Forgetting her dignity, Amue whipped around to glare at Strongine. “That’s unjust, sister! First of all, none of us should be wearing the genuine heirloom armor for anything as frivolous as a party, and second of all, just because you haven’t hit your growth spurt yet – well, see how you like it then!”

“ _Not_ fair!” piped up Catherine Elle, clenching tiny fists.

“Well, I think it’s a shame,” said their mother, intervening before the whole thing could start up again. “To put Brigadier General Olympe over all the other illustrious Armstrongs – it shows a great disrespect to your heritage, girls.” She fixed them with a stern look, and Amue and Strongine gasped and straightened in unison. Olivier rolled her eyes.

“We wouldn’t –”

“Of course we respect all our ancestors!”

“But,” said Catherine Elle, “Olympe was the best! She was so great! She –”

“Valiantly disguising herself in men’s armor and joining the regiment, out of the purest feelings of patriotism and loyalty for her nation!” Amue couldn’t help herself; she loved the story too much to let Catherine Elle butcher the telling of it. She could feel her eyes starting to well up as she recited it. “Rising through the ranks on the basis of her strength and skill in battle, only revealed when her true love proved false and gave away her secret –”

“And he turned out to be a traitor too, so they gave her his job,” added Strongine, “and serves him right!”

“It’s thanks to Olympe,” said Amue, hands clasped in front of her, “that we’ll be able to join the military when we’re grown – the dream of every pure Armstrong maiden!” She had no trouble ignoring the snort from the doorway. Their father said Olivier was just in a difficult phase, anyway. “Olivier couldn’t even be a cadet now if Olympe hadn’t paved the way, so – if we all want to honor her, it’s not disrespect!”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to honor Olympe. But it _is_ disrespectful to quarrel over her and ignore the rest of your history. What about Louisa Armstrong, or Perrine Armstrong or Sofia Louise Armstrong? Or Catherine Strongine – for shame, two of you are named after her! Or Judge Berenice Ignatia – clearly,” their mother sniffed, “I have been remiss in teaching you about your heritage. I’m ashamed of myself as well. Sit down, girls –”

“Me too?” said Alex.

“- _and_ Alex Louis, and if any of you still want to be Olympe by the time I’m done, I’ll consider I’ve failed.” She gave them all an extremely meaningful look, and Amue knew that that was the end of any chance that one of them would get to costume as Brigadier General Olympe Armstrong that year – except maybe Catherine Elle, who was still too young to be cowed by a parental guilt trip.

She sighed and sat down, and a second later her siblings did the same – all except Olivier, who continued to lounge in the doorway and examine her clipped fingernails. “All right, Mother,” Amue said, trying to look attentive. “Tell us about Judge Berenice Ignatia Armstrong.”

Their mother cleared her throat and pulled her reading glasses out from her pocket to perch them on her nose, as she always did when about to embark on a lecture.

“Judge Berenice Ignatia Armstrong was Olympe Armstrong’s great-aunt, and she was one of the reasons that Olympe joined the army to begin with. You did know that women were able to join the civil service several generations before Olympe paved the way for them to fight on the front lines, didn’t you?” She glanced over at her children, who all nodded hastily, although Amue had mostly forgotten that fact and she doubted whether Alex or Catherine Elle had ever learned it. “Judge Armstrong was one of the pioneers, and she had a great reputation for honesty and fairness, which made her enormously respected, but also made her a number of enemies.” Strongine and Catherine Elle, who had been starting to look bored at the discussion of the civil service, visibly perked up at this; their mother carried on serenely, as if she hadn’t noticed. “There are a number of stories that demonstrate Judge Berenice Ignatia’s sense of justice, but just one example is the incident with the Schempp-Hirth family.”

Strongine and Amue exchanged glances. The last time they’d been at a formal party of Amestris’ leading noble families, Ivan Schempp-Hirth had insulted Alex’s hair and Strongine had knocked him to the ground. This was not an incident they’d felt it necessary to report to their parents, although that didn’t necessarily mean their parents didn’t know about it.

“The Schempp-Hirths have always fancied themselves something of an alchemical family,” said their mother, with a sniff. “Towards the end of Judge Armstrong’s career, they pressed charges against a vagabond, claiming he’d stolen several books of valuable research. Their assertion was that they’d given the man shelter for the night out of kindness, and he’d repaid them by absconding with the notes. The vagabond, on the other hand –a man who seems to have been a foreigner, and certainly had no connections or influence – protested that the books were his own, and the Schempp-Hirths, after seeing his skills, had asked him to demonstrate some techniques for them and had then concocted the scheme to steal his secrets. Judge Berenice Ignatia was prepared to hear both sides, but before she could make a judgment, the Schempp-Hirths came and offered her a large sum of money to decide the case in their favor.

“What fools!” exclaimed Amue, once again unable to contain her feelings. “They should have known an Armstrong would never accept that.”

“And of course Judge Berenice Ignatia did not accept,” agreed their mother. “Although you must understand, at the time, no judge would have ever decided against a family like the Schempp-Hirths in court. The fact that they felt they had to bribe her at all was a remarkable sign of her reputation for steadfastness. In any case, their next step was to unite all their friends and connections – and of course the Schempp-Hirths, then as now, were a force to be reckoned with – and inform Judge Armstrong that if she meant to proceed with her libelous decision against them , she would shortly see all of her brother Buck Armstrong’s initiatives blocked in Parliament, most of the family’s trade agreements dropped or unfavorably renegotiated, and her niece Ariadne Armstrong’s engagement broken; in short, the family might find itself in somewhat severe straits. Judge Armstrong, of course, informed them that they should do as they pleased, but no Armstrong could consider herself impoverished while her honor remained intact, and promptly settled the case in favor of the stranger, fining the Schempp-Hirths a substantial sum for slander and wasting the time of the court while she was at it.”

“Did the stranger give her any kind of reward?” asked Strongine. “Did he give her three wishes, or tell her alchemical secrets?”

“History does not document any such thing,” said their mother primly. “But,” she added, with an almost-invisible smile, as Strongine made a face to show what she thought of the disappointments of history, “there is a _legend_ that after the trial, the stranger attempted to offer her secret alchemical knowledge from the lost land of Xerxes in thanks. But the judge refused, saying that she could not accept any reward other than the satisfaction of doing what was right. If she did, it would be as much a bribe as anything the Schempp-Hirths had offered, and her conscience would not tolerate it. And besides, while the Schempp-Hirths might feel the need to steal flashy techniques to maintain their premier status, the artistic Armstrong alchemy had been good enough for all her ancestors, and was good enough for her, and any new developments would be discovered by future Armstrongs, thank you _very_ much.”

Amue, Alex, and Catherine Elle cheered – as who would not, upon hearing this rousing declaration of Armstrong pride and self-sufficiency? Except, apparently, Amue’s annoying little sister Strongine, who clearly had no appreciation for a good speech, and waited until the noise had died down before asking, “But what did that have to do with Olympe joining the army? I thought she just did it out of patriotism?”

“The Armstrong family was struggling for years after the Schempp-Hirths waged their campaign against Judge Armstrong,” their mother explained, “which is one of the reasons that Olympe decided she needed to cover the Armstrong name in glory on the battlefield. Also, I think she thought the regular salary of a commissioned officer was likely to come in useful.”

“If Judge Berenice Ignatia caused all that trouble for the family,” said Strongine, rather doubtfully, “that doesn’t seem very admirable – even if it did turn out all right for Olympe.”

“Strongine!” Amue burst to her feet, genuinely horrified. “The Armstrong family pride is far more important than the Armstrong family fortune! You can’t have understood the point of the story. Judge Berenice Ignatia was _so_ honorable – even to the point of turning down the stranger’s reward!” She clutched her hands together and declaimed, heartfelt, “I can only hope I have the opportunity to make such a noble and difficult choice someday!”

“Family loyalty is important too,” muttered Strongine. “If I were Ariadne Armstrong, I would have been –”

“Well, Strongine,” interrupted their mother, “you might prefer the story of Perrine Armstrong, then.”

Strongine did not look convinced. “I know about Perrine Armstrong. She was married to Guillaume Armstrong the second – the one who was almost Fuhrer. But she didn’t do anything –”

“No, that was Perrine Louise Armstrong,” corrected their mother, “and in fact, her story’s quite fascinating. Historians have hypothesized for years that Perrine Louise and the twenty-fourth Fuhrer –” A snort came from the doorway; Mrs. Armstrong shot her eldest daughter a quelling look, and continued, smoothly, “But you’ll hear that story when you’re a little older. I was referring to the _third_ Perrine Armstrong, who lived in the mid-eighteenth century. Her brother was sent with the army to the Eastern border – which, of course, at that time wasn’t much beyond East City itself – and Perrine decided to accompany him to the front before crossing back over the mountains to stay with friends in East City. However, while they were traveling, a sandstorm blew up and the party became separated. A gently-reared Armstrong maiden with little experience, Perrine suddenly found herself lost in the desert alone.”

Amue and Alex gasped at the ominous note in their mother’s voice; she looked faintly pleased at the reaction as she continued. “After wandering for two days, and running steadily lower and lower on water – and, one imagines, starting to grow somewhat delirious – Perrine managed to find a Xingese caravan. With the usual impeccable Armstrong timing, she encountered it at almost immediately after it had been attacked by bandits. Most of the defenders had been killed or wounded, and the one girl still fighting looked about to be overrun.”

That time, all four younger Armstrongs sucked in a breath.

“Exactly who those bandits were has been a topic of debate for centuries – the Armstrongs always claimed they were desperate Drachman spies who’d misread their map, and the Han clan suspected a Yao ambush, but it seems _most_ likely that they were once farmers displaced by the conquest of what’s now Resembool –”

Catherine Elle was emphatically uninterested in the academic digression. “What happened to _Perrine_?” she demanded. For once, Amue was grateful that her littlest sister hadn’t yet learned manners; she hadn’t wanted to interrupt, but it did seem hard of her mother to go into a historic digression right then, with the lost, gentle Armstrong maiden about to run into a pack of bandits and suffer who-knew-what fate –

Their mother cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “of course Perrine must have been frightened, but she remembered the Armstrong principles of nobility and justice and hurled her heavy traveling wig into the fray with all her strength, killing a bandit instantly. She followed this up by rushing in herself and, utilizing the traditional Armstrong family wrestling arts, was able to take down six of the twelve bandits menacing the last caravan defender, which allowed the Xingese girl Ai Han to triumph over the other six – or so they both reported later. Though remember,” she added, peering sternly through her spectacles at her children, “one must allow for dramatic exaggeration. In any case, by the time the battle was over, it was sadly too late for most of the caravan’s initial drivers, and as Perrine – while only a maiden, which was considered something of a drawback at the time, although we live in a more enlightened age now– was also built along the most heroic Armstrong lines physically and emotionally, she gallantly offered to escort the girl home.”

Amue felt her eyes dewing over again. “How brave!”

“Of course, Ai Han presumably couldn’t understand a word of it,” their mother added prosaically, “but perhaps the sentiment came through. Then, the story goes, Perrine collapsed from dehydration, and Ai Han – who was significantly smaller than Perrine – carried the Armstrong girl to the nearest oasis to save her life. This was the origin of the historic friendship between the Armstrongs and the Han clan. Perrine Armstrong did escort Ai Han all the way home, and once that voyage was completed, Ai Han returned the favor, accompanying Perrine back to her anxious brother along with a caravan full of silk and valuable Xingese inks. The Hans, you see, had been attempting to create a trade route through to Ishval when the caravan was attacked, but when opportunity knocked – in the form of Perrine Armstrong hurling a wig – Ai Han convinced them to reconsider their plans and negotiate an exclusive contract with the Armstrongs instead. The Hans and the Armstrongs both prospered, and even now that trade with Xing is more difficult due to the current Fuhrer’s isolationist policies, we keep the connection open. That’s why the Green Bungalow in the back of the estate is traditionally reserved for –”

“Did Ai Han and Perrine have any more adventures?” interrupted Strongine, ignoring the stern look that Amue sent her. Strongine was twice Catherine Elle’s age, and should know enough by now to wait her turn, but sometimes that just didn’t seem to matter to her.

Their mother carefully adjusted her reading glasses on her nose. “Unfortunately for the historical record, Perrine’s brother was much more interested in talking about his new trade concessions than his sister’s adventures, and Perrine herself wasn’t particularly literary. There are at least three versions of Ai Han’s memoirs floating around, though. They _are_ rather exciting, if not necessarily accurate. Battles with rogue chimerae, hidden Xerxian treasure – I believe one of the stories involves a dragon. Perhaps,” she added, “if you put more attention into studying Xingese, rather than spending all your time in the practice yards out back, you’ll be able to read them yourself someday.”

Even Amue, starry as her eyes were after the conclusion of the story – such pure friendship! Such valiant deeds! – couldn’t help but notice the blatant push in the direction of schoolwork. Personally, she felt this was hardly the thing to ruin a good story with. Usually, Strongine would protest this sort of thing so Amue didn’t have to, but this time her younger sister didn’t seem to mind so much. “Maybe I will,” she agreed. “I’d like to know more – and!” She brightened. “If I was Perrine for the party, then I could make an eighteenth-century wig and get Xingese silk and –”

Predictably, Catherine Elle protested, “I want to be Perrine!” Amue was at least eighty percent sure that Catherine Elle wouldn’t have wanted to be Perrine at all if Strongine hadn’t announced it – but then, if she was going to be honest, she had to admit that she was abruptly feeling a strong urge to announce her claim to Perrine’s costume herself. Still, she was supposed to be more mature than her younger sisters, and perhaps Judge Berenice Ignatia would make a good costume. The judge’s robes would look impressive even on her suddenly-too-large frame, and –

“Wait a moment, both of you,” their mother said, before Strongine could start in with ‘but I called it first!’ “You haven’t even given me a chance to tell you about your namesake yet!”

“Catherine Strongine? I do know about her – no, really I do,” Strongine protested, catching Amue’s glare. “She was married to Frederick Jean Armstrong, who was the first Armstrong alchemist. Everyone knows about them!”

“Everyone knows about _him_ ,” corrected their mother. “But in fact, the most recent scholarship has shown that Catherine Strongine Armstrong may have played a much larger role than anyone suspected in the invention of the artistic Armstrong alchemy that has been passed through your line _for generations_.” Though only an Armstrong by marriage, their mother nonetheless managed to imbue the hallowed phrase with as much weight and gravity as their father ever did, if not more. Someday, Amue thought enviously, she’d be able to say it just that way, without it sounding ridiculous at all.

“It’s a fact that Frederick Jean was killed towards the beginning of the Cameron Civil War when he was only thirty-one. He was using alchemy then, but the first recorded use of the artistic alchemy in the form we know it today didn’t come until the siege of the Armstrong estates four years later. Catherine Strongine’s eldest son was still only eleven at that point, and Catherine Strongine seems to have been in charge of the defenses - and while she was no professional warrior, the later lawsuit discusses some rather clever alchemical traps that young Guillaume Armstrong the first would almost certainly have been too young to develop. Moreover, Catherine Strongine was known to be something of an artist, so it’s not too large a logical leap to presume that she came up with the idea of investing the basic rock transformations that Frederick Jean had been researching with the uniquely Armstrong portraiture technique. ‘Don’t let them forget what hit them,’ is the rough translation of Guillaume Armstrong’s explanation of the value of the technique, but the Middle Amestrian verb form used is also rather feminine, which provides additional evidence –”

Perhaps noticing that her children’s eyes were starting to glaze over, their mother reigned herself in. “Well, I don’t imagine you want all the details. I wrote my thesis on Catherine Strongine, you know,” she added, rather idly. “In fact, that’s how I met your father. He carried an entire shelf full of books over from the Armstrong archives to the historical library for me, looking so dashing with his moustache, and –”

“Mother!” shrieked Strongine.

“That’s part of your history too, Strongine,” their mother said, not in the least abashed. “I certainly don’t see why you should be embarrassed to hear about it. But the point being, the artistic alchemy that you and Alex have been learning, Amue, was very likely developed in large part by Catherine Strongine – and that is as important a part of your heritage as Olympe’s medals of honor on the battlefield, if not moreso. In fact, I believe we still have some of Catherine Strongine’s sculptures floating around here somewhere –”

“You mean there’s a bust of her in the Hall of Armstrongs?”

“Well, certainly, but that’s not what I was referring to,” said their mother. “I think – now, let me see, I believe they’re perhaps in the globe wing of the library. You see, it seems Catherine Strongine had a rather adventurous life in her later years. Once all her children were grown, and either helping Guillaume to run the estate or comfortably married with households of their own, Catherine Strongine announced her decision to travel. Guillaume Armstrong attempted to convince her to stay, but, of course, she was an Armstrong, and there was no chance of talking her out of a decision once she’d made it. It seems she traveled quite a few places, for although she doesn’t seem to have been literate – which wasn’t uncommon for a noblewoman of the time, unfortunately for the historical record – she mailed back sculptures that she’d created of several of the sights she saw on her travels. There are models of the western monoliths, the Grand Maze of Creta, and the Snow Palace of Drachma, among others. Your tutor should have mentioned them in your art history studies. The Snow Palace of Drachma was the last of her sculptures to appear; no one knows what became of Catherine Strongine after that, although it’s rumored that she’d made the decision to go model the ruins of Xerxes when she disappeared. But of course, there’s no way anyone could have known that for sure, so it’s almost certainly just a legend.”

“But of course she would have!” breathed Amue. A long-lost kinswoman . . . the ruins of Xerxes . . . it had all the seeds of grand romance. And Amue knew just what would make it blossom into a truly epic tale. “I’m sure someone could find some signs of Catherine Strongine’s fate, if they went looking –”

“Quite probably.” Their mother’s calm, clipped voice sliced once again through Amue’s train of thought. “But no one in this household is going hunting for their long-lost ancestry until they are at _least_ eighteen, Amue.”

Amue felt herself flush. “But –”

“I bet Perrine was younger than that when she met Ai Han,” put in Strongine. Amue had to give her younger sister this: while she could be incredibly irritating at times, she did know when to stand united against parental authority.

“At present, we have no plans to abandon any of you in the desert,” said their mother briskly. “Although that may change, if you’re not able to settle your quarrel about the costume. Are you?”

“We’ll be fine! I’ll be Perrine, and –”

“I’ll be Catherine Strongine!” said Catherine Elle. “And Alex can be Frederick!”

“I’ll be Frederick Armstrong!” agreed Alex, puffing himself up to his full size – which was considerable, for a twelve-year-old, although still nothing compared to Amue’s.

A fact which Amue took advantage of now, for the purposes of looming sternly over her siblings. “You can’t just take Catherine Strongine like that,” she informed her. “What if I’d wanted to be Catherine Strongine?”

“Be Olympe!” suggested Catherine Elle cunningly.

“What about Olivier?” said Alex. He looked over at his eldest sister, who had been standing, silent, all this while; his other siblings followed his gaze. “Sister? Who are you dressing up as?”

Olivier laughed and straightened, brushing back the one defiant forelock she’d allowed to escape the short cadet’s cut. “You can play dress-up if you want, little sisters,” she said. “I don’t feel the need to borrow a corpse’s glory.”

“But, sister!” gasped Amue.

“We always dress up as an Armstrong!” protested Strongine. “It’s tradition!”

“In that case,” said Olivier, “I’m dressing up as Olivier Mirra Armstrong. That ought to be good enough.” She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer, that single long lock of hair jauntily flying behind her, and strode out of the room. Several dejected siblings and one enigmatic parent watched her go.

Amue hated Olivier’s difficult phase. Hated it, hated it. “Olivier,” she said, feeling it true, “ruins _everything_.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Strongine, unexpectedly. “I’ll be Perrine this year and Olympe next year –”

“I’ll be Olympe next year!” said Catherine Elle, belligerent.

Strongine ignored her. “And I bet when Perrine went to parties she dressed up as Perrine Louise or Catherine Strongine, until she got to be Perrine and parties didn’t seem important. And now we’re dressing up as her – so that’s all right, isn’t it?”

“And, you know, while your father and I are very proud of Olivier and the work she’s doing in the army,” said their mother – to them all, ostensibly, but Amue thought that she was looking at her the most, and wasn’t sure how to feel about that – “you shouldn’t feel the need to follow in all of her footsteps, either. Just as one Olympe is enough for a party, one Olivier is a wonderful thing for the family, but I’m not so certain about two.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy if someone dresses up as her someday, though!” put in Alex earnestly.

Strongine and Amue exchanged glances, sharing the same mental image of a future Armstrong girl – maybe one of their own daughters – dressed up in Olivier’s cadet’s gear and stomping around in her trademark boots. Strongine started laughing, and though Amue was still angry at Olivier, she couldn’t help it; she had to laugh too.

“All right,” she said. “Olivier can do what she wants. I hereby make a solemn vow, though – by the family name! – that _my_ daughters won’t dress up as Olivier.” Amue lifted her chin higher and folded her arms in front of her, in the same pose as most of the statues in Armstrong Hall. “Once I’ve found out what happened to Catherine Strongine, and made a moral decision that’s saved the Armstrong honor, and gained a reputation fighting bandits, and – well, once I’ve done all that, my daughters can dress up as _me_."


End file.
